drumstick, please

Today was the end of the road. The last time for a while that I'll have to walk into the hospital and have the doctors know who I am on sight. I won't knock on wood, but I will say that I'm going to enjoy every solitary moment that is the day of Bug's last visit to the surgeon for this particular episode. I will celebrate that this morning he had each and every suture removed from that seven-inch incision and that his surgeon said all looked good. She was pleased that he's walking well. Hopping well.

What she doesn't know is that he's doing ridiculously well. I'm not going to tell her. It's like a tiny present that Bug and I are keeping to ourselves. Two short weeks ago, that cat looked at me from his spot under the kitchen counter, unable to lift his head from the cold floor tile. I've never felt an ache like I did when he looked at me with those glassy eyes. Love and guilt are a tugging combination. Love and joy are simply beautiful, and that's all I feel when the little man makes his way about the house like a fourth-grader on cotton candy overload, jumping on windowsills and onto the bed and over the back of my sleeping weekend visitor. He's resumed guarding the door while I shower. Two nights ago he kicked Cricket in the head several times, and I allowed the tussle to go on longer than I should, simply because I took such pleasure in seeing him back to normal. As normal as life can be without one of your legs.

I attempted to snap some photos of the critter and those meek efforts are shared below. As you can see, he remains able to outrun my camera in most cases.

The white coats well me that now we wait to see if the cancer resurfaces on some other part of his little body. It almost makes me laugh. I will wait for the man I'm to spend my life with, for Spring to come to my beautiful city, for a time when pizza is zero points on Weight Watchers. We will not be waiting for this.